The Monuments Men Murders: The Art of Murder 4

by Josh Lanyon

  “There was no gray area there,” Jason said. “It was fight or die.”

  Sam said grimly, “It looked like it to me. And you agree the incident wasn’t connected to your case?”

  “Yes. I mean, yes, I agree, and that’s what I believe. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt the shooting wasn’t connected. It’s just really weird and random that we happened to be there today.”

  “Lucky for your subject.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you able to interview him before hell broke loose?”

  “Yes. Sort of. He was uncooperative.” Not for the first time, Jason considered confiding in Sam. Sam knew the bare bones of the case, of course; what he did not know was that Captain Thompson had implicated Jason’s grandfather in his theft of paintings and other items.

  If Sam had known, in all likelihood he would have tried to convince Jason to recuse himself. That was certainly what Jason would recommend to another agent in his position.

  Sam’s hand arrowed down beneath Jason’s belt, the waistbands of his jeans and boxers. “You’re losing weight, West.”

  Jason jumped at that caressing intrusion. He didn’t bother to answer, raising his face to find Sam’s mouth, kissing him.

  Sam kissed him back, but he murmured, “I worry about you.”

  Jason shook his head. “Don’t. I’m okay—and I’m not here for my biannual weigh-in.”

  Sam cocked an eyebrow. “No? What are you here for?”

  Jason raised his eyes innocently heavenward as though trying to decide. “My biannual fuc—”

  Kennedy laughed, withdrew his hand, and smacked Jason’s ass.

  Sam liked to make love with the lights on.

  “I like to look at you,” he said simply. “I like to look in your eyes, I like to see your face. You’re very expressive, and that’s…enjoyable.”

  Jason made a face—see, very expressive!—and laughed. He had no preferences beyond wanting to have sex with Sam as often as possible. Okay, he could have done without the uninspired floral pairing undoubtedly from the Propac Hospitality Images Collection viewed over Sam’s shoulder. But all he really wanted to look at was Sam anyway.

  That soft, almost boyish fall of blond hair across Sam’s forehead—there was so little that was boyish about Sam—the crescent blue-black shadows of eyelashes on his hard, lean cheeks, the way his white teeth bit his lower lip as he thrust into Jason, and that hot, intense light in his blue eyes as he focused, unblinking on Jason’s face.

  Sam was usually quiet and intense during sex, but tonight he half groaned heartfelt, broken sentences. “So good…so beautiful…want…you…so…much…”

  Jason gasped as the long strokes grew short and fierce, shoving back into it, riding the pleasurable surge and swell of relentless tide.

  “Ah…ah…ah…” He was as loud in sex as Sam was usually terse. “Oh God… Oh God… Oh, Sam… Jesus, Sam…that. Oh God, do that again…ahhh…”

  Every so often Sam would start laughing and cover Jason’s mouth with his own, but not tonight. Tonight he was honed in and laser intent. Jason knew Sam had been afraid for him and was reacting from some deep, inarticulate well of feeling things he did not want to feel.

  He kissed Jason with gentle insistence, parting his lips with his tongue, closing his eyes as though he was drinking in Jason’s every response, every breath.

  When he came it was with a long, long groan that seemed almost wrenched out of him, his hands closing on Jason’s with bruising strength as his whole body spasmed, pouring out hot, sweet stickiness in what looked like an almost excruciatingly powerful orgasm.

  Afterward they basked in the mellow lamplight, holding each other.

  “What do you think about Montana?” Sam asked lazily. He picked up Jason’s hand and kissed his palm almost absently before placing it on his own flat abdomen.

  “It’s big. It’s got a lot of mountains. Why?”

  “I like it.”

  “You mean…you like it enough to live here?”

  Sam shrugged. “Who knows. You keep reminding me I’ll have to retire one of these days.” He smiled and traced the brown tan line across Jason’s hips. “Of course, it’s a long way from the ocean—and you’re half fish.”

  Montana had some things going for it, fair enough. It was beautiful, no question. Maybe one of the most beautiful places Jason had ever been.

  It wasn’t just a matter of geography, though. Jason’s career was on an upward trajectory, and some of that momentum inevitably had to do with location. The LA Field Office was one of the largest and most high-profile in the country. Los Angeles was arguably the current art capital of the nation. There were opportunities for him there that would not be available elsewhere. Certainly not in Siberia. Also, his parents were not young. Anywhere, Montana, was a long way from Los Angeles if he had to get home quickly.

  “The winters would take some getting used to,” Jason said.

  “You would not enjoy the winters,” Sam agreed.

  Jason smiled. Not because the winters would probably kill him, but because of the casual way Sam threw out that you, as though taking it for granted that wherever he ended up, it would be with Jason.

  They lay in contented silence for a while, Sam idly folding and smoothing out the fingers of Jason’s hand resting on his abdomen.

  “I met the president of your fan club today,” Jason remarked. He glanced sideways at Sam.

  “Hm?” Sam’s brows shot up. “Oh.” He was amused. “Petty. He’s enthusiastic.”

  “Understatement.”

  “You’re not jealous?” Sam sounded incredulous.

  Jason thought it over. “I don’t think so. No. You had a thing with him, I take it?”

  Sam dipped his head left and right. Comme ci, comme ça. “‘A thing’ might be putting it too strongly. I like him. We had sex.”

  “Okay.” He wanted to ask the obvious question, but pride kept him silent.

  Sam seemed to reflect. “It was before I met you. Obviously.”

  Was it obvious? If so, Jason was glad to hear it.

  He said, “Sure. Well, and even if it wasn’t, we didn’t have any agreement.”

  “No.”

  Jason chose his next words carefully. “It would bother me now.”

  Sam made a hmph sound. “I would hope.”

  Jason smiled, closed his eyes again. “Just wanted to be sure we’re on the same page.”

  “There’s nobody but you, West.”

  “I haven’t wanted anyone else since we met.”

  Sam gave a funny laugh. “Except Chris Shipka.”

  Jason winced, looked up. “That was…” Something he preferred not to think about. He had been in a lot of pain and had made the mistake of thinking sex with someone—anyone—who wasn’t Sam would help.

  Into his silence, Sam said without inflection, “Yeah.”

  Jason said huskily, “I thought it was over between us.”

  You said it was over.

  “I know.” Sam added in afterthought, “I’m sorry.”

  Jason made a sound that didn’t seem as much like a laugh as he’d hoped. “It was stupid.”

  “It’s forgotten.”

  Well, no, it wasn’t, since Sam had just brought it up again. They had never really talked about it until now. But then, what was there to say? They both knew why it had happened.

  Jason said, “Petty is hoping a place in your BA unit might open up.”

  “Is he?” Sam sounded surprised and thoughtful. “That’s… He might make a good choice.”

  “He’s a little young, isn’t he? Don’t you need at least seven years as an active agent to be considered?”

  “Usually. He’s older than he looks. He’s older than you, as a matter of fact. He’s been an agent for six years. But, as with the ACT, sometimes exceptions are made.”

  “Older than me?”

  Sam made a sound of amusement. “That’s right, old man.”

  “Hm.”


  Maybe Jason was a little jealous because he did not like that idea. Any part of that idea, but particularly the part where Sam made exceptions for Travis Petty.

  “Something to think about,” Sam said. He yawned hugely, stretched, and turned out the lamp.

  He was running.

  Racing through a misty, wet woodland. The ground was sucking at his feet, dragging at him, and the harder he ran, the slower he seemed to be going. He was so tired. He had been running and running and running. He couldn’t afford to slow down, couldn’t stop, because he was right behind him, right there. He could hear him, feel him closing in—

  Sam said calmly from close by, “You’re dreaming, Jason.”

  Jason’s eyes flew open. Another strange darkness. Another strange bed.

  Another hotel room.

  He had to catch his breath. His heart was still hammering. But he wasn’t alone. That made a nice change.

  “Right,” he gulped. “Sorry.” He was hell to sleep with these days.

  Sam didn’t answer, pulling him over, pressing Jason’s damp head to his bare chest. Jason could hear the familiar rock-solid thump of Sam’s heart beneath his ear.

  He made himself lie still, taking long, careful breaths.

  Sam was quiet too. He combed his fingers through Jason’s hair, slow, untroubled passes over Jason’s head like this was normal, like this was how everyone spent the night.

  Jason’s breathing quieted, his heart calmed.

  He was glad Sam didn’t ask him about the dream, didn’t try to psychoanalyze him. It wasn’t like there was any hidden meaning to be deciphered. Jason was in fear of his life. And with good reason.

  Sam was still petting him, the pads of his fingertips circling Jason’s scalp in small, soothing motions.

  It was comforting, even sort of pleasurable, and little prickles rose on Jason’s skin.

  “Feels nice,” he mumbled.

  He was too tired to get worked up about it, but yeah. Nice.

  Sam said, “My mother used to rub my head when I had trouble sleeping.”

  Jason huffed amusement. It was hard to imagine Sam ever lying still long enough for a head rub. It was hard imagining Sam as a little kid. But he’d seen the pictures to prove it.

  “All those bees buzzing around your bonnet, no wonder you cain’t sleep.” Sam’s droll mimicking of Ruby Kennedy’s Western drawl won a tired laugh from Jason.

  “Her secret weapon.”

  “One of them,” Sam agreed.

  He continued that slow, restful head massage, and Jason tried to convince himself he was going to drift off. Of course, the more he tried to tell himself he was sleepy, the less likely sleep was.

  “It won’t go on forever,” Sam said after a time.

  Jason moved his head in assent. Was that the good news or the bad news? Sometimes he wasn’t sure.

  “And I know you know this, but it’s not just about situation awareness or staying sharp. You have to take care of yourself. Eat right. Sleep right.” Sam added neutrally, “Go easy on the alcohol.”

  Jason grimaced. “I know.”

  Sam’s fingertips lightly brushed his ribs. Jason amended, “I’m trying.”

  Sam didn’t say anything else, or at least didn’t verbalize anything else, but he was saying plenty through touch, and Jason let himself be reassured, comforted, by those silent caresses.

  Chapter Six

  JOGGING read the single word scribbled on Holiday Inn stationery.

  Jason peered blearily at the paper on the pillow next to him, sighed, and dropped back to stare up at the ceiling sprinkler heads. Sam was by nature an early riser. Also a late-to-beder. In fact, he did not sleep much, period. Which was why waking him up in the middle of the night when he did finally manage to rest was really not okay.

  But thank God he had been there last night. Last night… Last night Jason had needed a friend as well as a lover, and he was just very grateful Sam had been there.

  But how the hell much longer was this going to go on?

  Most of the time he was too busy to worry about— Well, that was a lie. He did not ever entirely forget that Kyser was out there. It was like knowing you had some dreaded virus sleeping in your bloodstream, something that hadn’t manifested yet but was probably going to kill you one of these days.

  Hopefully the Bureau would find the cure first, but there was no guarantee.

  Jason heard the hotel room door slam as he was stepping out of the shower. He had delayed returning to his own room in hopes of a final few private moments with Sam. He already knew Sam was having breakfast with SAC Phillips, so that possibility was out.

  He dried off—making sure to leave a clean towel for Sam—and opened the bathroom door.

  Sam was on the phone, of course. He raised his brows in silent greeting.

  “See you in twenty.” He disconnected, tossed his phone to the bed. “Morning. Sleep okay?”

  His face had a healthy flush beneath the sheen of perspiration. His hair was damp. He wore navy sweats and a sweat-stained navy T-shirt with the gold initials FBI.

  “You mean the part of the night when I wasn’t shouting down the house?”

  “You don’t talk in your sleep, let alone shout.” Sam smiled faintly. “It’s the only time you don’t talk.”

  “Hey.”

  But Jason was not offended. It was true. He was verbal. Strong communication skills was a notation on every report card and job evaluation he’d ever had. Not always a compliment.

  He reached for his jeans, and Sam caught him by the arm and pulled him in for a kiss.

  “Mm,” Sam murmured regretfully. “I wish we had more time.”

  Jason smiled, not bothering to answer. Sam released him, and Jason pulled on his jeans and T-shirt.

  “What have you got going on tonight?” He picked up his ankle holster and Glock. He had started wearing the ankle holster at Sam’s insistence. Only on those occasions where he would not usually arm. He hated the damned thing with a passion and was convinced he was going to shoot himself in the foot one of these days, but if it made Sam happy…

  Sam sighed. “Dinner with the SACs from four satellite offices.”

  Jason sighed too. “Okay. Will I see you later?”

  “God, I hope so.”

  That was so heartfelt, Jason had to laugh. He was disappointed, but he had known there was a good chance the trip was going to go like this.

  “Well, if you get away early, give me a call.”

  Sam’s brows rose. “What’s early?”

  “Anything before seven a.m. tomorrow.”

  Sam snorted, pulled him in for a kiss.

  After shaving, dressing in appropriate business attire in his own room, and arming, Jason texted J.J.

  Lobby in 15, J.J. texted back.

  Huh. Either things had gone very well the night before, or they had gone very wrong.

  Jason had breakfast on his own—the Holiday Inn did a more than decent spread of pastries and DIY omelets if you were into eating—fueling up on coffee and answering the usual slew of emails that magically flooded his inbox at night.

  He was tired, but not as tired as some mornings, and he was grateful to Sam for that. Mostly, his mind was on the upcoming meeting with Quilletta McCoy.

  Having met Bert, the co-defendant in van Apeldoorn v. Thompson, he believed Quilletta was probably the driving force behind the efforts to dispose of Roy Thompson’s estate. Not only had Bert directed them to speak to his big sister, Bert’s taste in art seemed to run to comely Indian maidens and cowboys roping broncos. It seemed unlikely he’d recognize an Old Master if a Rembrandt in an ornate gilt frame fell on him.

  Quilletta might not have known exactly what she had in Uncle Roy’s treasure trove, but she had been smart enough to know she had something. She had sent the van Eyck to Christie’s for appraisal, and after six months of researching provenance, Christie’s had returned the painting.

  Too hot to handle, in other words. Even for Christie’s, w
hich had gained a reputation for not always exercising due diligence when investigating the provenance of works with dubious histories.

  Whatever Christie’s had communicated to Quilletta, it had not discouraged her from trying to sell the work on the international art market—and two additional paintings as well.

  He scrolled quickly through updates on active cases, frowned over news from Detective Gil Hickok, head of LAPD’s Art Theft Detail, that Shepherd Durrand was rumored to be back in the States—possibly good news if it was true, or possibly not, if Shepherd knew something about his legal standing that they didn’t. There were several new cases to consider: the theft of a Renoir from a residence on Catalina Island, yet another Internet art scam, and a complaint alleging a Beverly Hills vintage-wine merchant had committed fraud.

  He was a little irritated—and would be first to admit, unreasonably—when he absently glanced up and spotted Travis Petty enter the lobby. Sam hadn’t mentioned his morning ride to the office was Petty.

  That would be because Sam didn’t consider it worth mentioning, which was of course reassuring. Also further irritating.

  Petty scanned the lobby, spotted Jason, hesitated—recognized that his hesitation was noticeable—and came over to Jason’s table.

  “West.”

  “Hey,” Jason said with a cordiality he didn’t feel. “Help yourself to coffee.”

  Petty’s smile was off-hand. “No thanks. We’re having breakfast in a couple of minutes.”

  We? Jason started to speak but caught himself. Maybe Petty was going to be at breakfast with Phillips and Sam. So what? Why not? The only legit cause he had for annoyance was at himself for having to struggle not to give in to irrational jealousy. He was not jealous by nature, so what the hell?